Photo courtesy of Terry L. Jones
The author dragging out a deer he killed while wading the backwater.
I used to go to great lengths, when deer hunting, to get way back in the woods away from everyone. That usually involved putting on chest waders and making my way across sloughs and flooded flats to reach isolated dry ridges.
I never considered how I was going to get a deer out of the deep woods if I killed one. My philosophy was to worry about that when the time came. Some retrievals were brutal, taking much of the day and involving dragging, wading, and boating.
When old age finally set in, I reluctantly had to find an easier way to hunt. These days, I spend a lot of my time hunting out of my truck, because if I’m lucky enough to shoot a deer, I can drive right up to it for loading. It’s not as exciting as stalking through the backwater, but when your body starts breaking down, you do what you have to do.
Ironically, perhaps the toughest deer retrieval I’ve ever had was one I shot from the truck.
I was nearly seventy years old and had two rotator cuff surgeries on my right shoulder that year, just a few months apart. The surgeon had recently cleared me to resume normal activities, so, of course, that meant going deer hunting.
While sitting on a small pipeline that ran through an old clear cut, a five-point buck walked out about 150 yards away. I fired as it was quartering slightly toward me. It looked like a good hit, but the only evidence I found was a large clump of hair on the ground.
I was expecting to find the buck crumpled up just off the pipeline, but I didn’t, and there was no blood anywhere. I searched the clear cut looking for signs, but after about an hour came up empty. Then two other lease members came by and helped me look, as well. Still nothing.
Eventually, I decided my bullet must have just grazed the deer and decided to head home, but I only got about a mile down the road when I turned around to go back. The deer was hit, I just knew it, and I was going to start the search anew.
This time, I planned to walk about a quarter of a mile to the far end of the clear cut and then crisscross the whole thing all the way back to the pipeline. The Ed Jones Branch (named for my great grandfather) runs through the clear cut and has steep banks. I didn’t think a badly wounded deer would try to cross it, so I confined myself to the side of the branch the deer was on.
When I reached the back side of the clear cut, I approached the branch, looked down, and saw a large puddle of fresh blood. Of all the places I could have begun my search, I just happened to walk upon a spot where the deer had bled out.
It was one of the few places where the creek could be crossed easily, so I hurried to the other side to pick up the blood trail. There was none, nor were there any tracks. Then it dawned on me that the buck must be in the creek itself.
I got in the water and went one way but was blocked by a big log jam. Turning around, I rounded a bend, looked up and saw the deer floating in a deep pool. The bullet had hit it a little too far back to produce much blood.
With great difficulty, I managed to pull it out of the creek bed and then realized I was going to have to drag it a quarter of a mile through the clear cut with a recently repaired and tender shoulder.
A deer sled would make it a lot easier, and I had one, but it was in my box stand across an icy, thigh-deep slough. And I was wearing knee boots.
I trudged back to the truck, drove down the pipeline, waded across the cold water, dumped the water out of my boots, got the sled, waded back across the slough, emptied my boots again, and headed to the deer.
After dragging the sled across the clear cut, the real work began. I lashed the gutted deer to the sled and headed out, but there were old tree tops, logs, and briar patches everywhere. I had to stop frequently, walk ahead a few yards to scout the best path, and then drag the sled up to that point and repeat until I finally got to the truck. I was wet up to my thighs, soaked with sweat, and utterly exhausted. But I had my deer.
When I got home, I told Carol that my shoulders might be shot but my heart must be in pretty good shape since it didn’t explode in the clear cut. And wouldn’t you know it? A few months ago, I had my fourth rotator cuff surgery. For some reason, I’m not as anxious as usual to shoot a deer this year.
Dr. Terry L. Jones is a professor emeritus of history at the University of Louisiana at Monroe. An autographed copy of “Louisiana Pastimes,” a collection of the author’s stories, costs $25. Contact him at tljones505@gmail.com
