Another post got me thinking about tough recovery situations. In SC, you have to leave the head attached to the carcass, which rules out boning one and packing it out. I've shot some deer and hogs in some of the most godawful places you can imagine, particularly so when I was a young fellow.
I remember one big buck I shot, when I was 17. Recovering him nearly killed me. I was alone and hunting in the mountains of northwest SC. I was hunting along a ridgeline over 2 miles from my truck. I had found an awesome rub line and a few hot scrapes. After sitting in a likely spot for several hours, I decided to still hunt down this old fire road. After seeing nothing but squirrels, and, since the sun had started going down, I decided I'd just still hunt back to the truck.
As luck would have it, I managed to get a shot on a huge old 6 point. He was just casually strolling along a well used deer trail. He looked like he was going somewhere, but not in any big hurry to get there. When I first spotted him, I was sitting on a rotten stump behind some mountain laurel. He was on track to pass right by me. At 15 yards, he stopped just long enough for me to put a hickory arrow right through his heart. I was ecstatic. It was my biggest and oldest buck with a bow.
I knew the shot was good, and he took off on a hard run. I expected him to pile up at any second, but he continued to run straight along the ridge for about 50 yards then took a hard right. I could see him run a few yards, then he disappeared. I then heard some crashing, which seemed to never end. After waiting for a minute or so, I ran over to where I saw him fall. What I found caused my stomach to drop.
Less than 30 yards from that old road bed, was a very steep mountainside. I knew it was a steep hillside, but didn't realize that it was basically a cliff. And my buck had barreled right over the edge. I whipped out my binos and spotted his white belly way off down the hill. I couldn't believe how far away he was. He was at least 200 yards down.
My first thought was, "Man, how am I going to get down there?" It was that steep. It wasn't just some hill you could hop your way down. One misstep and I'd be in a heap next to my buck. As I stood there contemplating my next move, I realized the situation was even more grim. He was on the wrong side of the mountain. The way out, and my truck were in the opposite direction and it was quickly getting dark. A quick look on my topo confirmed my suspicions. On the side where he fell, it was a mile or more of hills and drainages and then a big lake. No roads on that side, either.
It took me close to 10 hours to drag him the 200 yards up that hill and the 2 miles back to the truck. He weighed over 200 lbs and I basically had to dig my heels in the side of the hill, squat, grab his antlers, and straighten out my legs. Over and over and over again. A foot or two at a time. If I let him go, he'd slide right back down the hill, which he did several times. One time, he slid over 50 yards. I remember crying in frustration several times.
Once I got back to the top, I could only move him a few feet at a time. I started getting the cramps really bad in my back and hamstrings. I'd drag him a little ways, then basically fall over. At one point I considered going to get the truck and finding a way around the gate, but quickly realized it would probably take just as long to get the truck in there as it would to just drag the deer out. It was miserable, to say the least.
I did all of this in the pitch black dark, too. My flashlight died on me, and out of frustration I hurled it into oblivion. I gave up caring about all of the noises I was hearing. Thank goodness I had a fairly defined path to follow, too. In some places it was very difficult to discern the trail, and, in several places there were blow downs to cross. But I finally made it. The old Jeep J10 was a sight to behold.
I have never been so exhausted as I was after that. I had run out of water after a couple of hours and was seriously dehydrated. I had a couple of half full bottles of Mountain Dew under my seat, and after drinking those, I just collapsing in the bed of the truck. I didn't have the energy to lift that deer onto the tailgate. After sleeping for an hour, I mustered the strength to get that deer into the truck and drove the long hour home.
The saddest and most maddening thing about the whole affair happened that next day. When I got home at 7am, my folks had left a note on the kitchen table wondering where I was and reminding me they were on their way to Tennessee for the day and weren't coming back until late that evening. I knew I needed to get that deer to a cooler asap, but I was so exhausted, I just had to lay down for a little while. I figured I'd sleep a couple of hours. The temp was still pretty cool, so the meat should still be fine. Needless to say, when I woke up, it was dark. I couldn't tell if it was morning or night. A glance at my watch revealed I had slept almost 12 hours. I could barely lift myself out of the bed, I was so sore. When I realized what time it was, I really panicked. I rushed outside and checked on my deer. I had parked my truck in the driveway and not under the carport. It had warmed up that day, and he had baked in the sun in the bed of a black truck all day long. He had already started to smell.
I called our processor, and he told me to bring him on over and he'd check him for me. It was too late. He had spoiled. I was so upset, I almost gave up hunting. His cape was ruined, too. The drag out had scrapped huge swaths of hair from him. I almost left without taking his rack, but the guy at the processor chased me down as I was driving off and handed it to me, saying, "You'll want this. Maybe not now, but later." I'm looking at it as I write this.
Why didn't I just go get some help? I think my main concern was that I'd lose the deer to a bear or a bobcat. I'd been seeing tracks and claw marks on trees all around me. I also knew that, if I left, it would be several hours before I could get back. And even with help, it was still going to be a chore to get that deer out. I was thinking that, heck, I could have this deer in the truck before I even got back with some help. I'd rather just get it over with.
That hunt was a very pivotal moment in my life. I learned that I can accomplish the seemingly impossible. I took my dad back to the spot later that winter to see if I could find a knife I had dropped. He didn't believe me at first, when I showed him where I had dragged that deer from. I remember the look he gave me, when he realized I was telling him the truth. He just patted me on the shoulder, and said he didn't know one other man that could do that. That choked me up, and still does, when I think about it. He looked at me a little different after that day.
I also learned that every animal I shoot is worthy of respect, and that part of showing that respect and being a responsible hunter is having a plan to salvage the meat before I step foot in the woods. That sick feeling I felt after loosing that buck is still very real to me almost 24 years later. Not that I took risky shots before, but since then, I've been very conscious of trying to make as quick and efficient kill as possible. I've passed up a number of shots at animals that are in places that would make retrieval difficult or impossible, or if the weather has been too hot, and I know it would take too long to get one to a cooler. I have shot some animals in some very rough places, when I was allowed to bone them out, though.
I also have owned or had access to good tracking dogs. I had a lab that recovered around 30 deer for friends over the years. Now, my Jack Russell terrier is my go to tracker. The year following the described above, I shot a doe in an area on the other side of that big lake. It too, was in a difficult spot, and I hit her a little far back. This time, though, my Dad brought my dog, and our two Appaloosas. We found my doe with the help of the dog, drug her out of a laurel thicket, and hauled her to the truck draped over the saddle of Butch, my leopard Appaloosa. I also had found a deer processor close to where I was hunting. That doe was some fine eating.
I learned that you can never have enough water. Or basic supplies, for that matter. It took me almost two weeks to recover from that hunt. I really should have gone to the hospital, I was that dehydrated. I also lost most of my toenails. The way I was pulling up that mountainside, my toes were jammed into the ends of my boots.
In my truck, I now always have a block and tackle, food bars, a couple of gallons of water, fire starting items, batteries, and a myriad of other stuff. I may not take it all with me in the field, but it's always in my vehicle. It's come in handy numerous times.
Perhaps most importantly, is that I learned to have a network of dependable people I can call on in a pinch. I usually hunt alone, but I have a few guys I can call, if I need them. I've also given my wife an action plan to implement, if I don't call or come back at the time I'm supposed to.
Anyone else have a story they'd like to share?
Topic: Tough recovery stories... (Read 107 times)
