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"Well, tell me the story!"
Written by Paul Grube
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"That is a nice deer", my dad said as I neared the truck. "Yeah, I think it is. Bigger than three years ago. I panted
as I laid the animal down on the open tailgate. "Oh he is way bigger, congratulations!" As we rounded the truck for the
ride home my dad uttered the phrase that hunters love to hear. "Well, tell me the story!"
I drove down from Flagstaff, where I am attending graduate school, on Thursday night and headed out with my dad
Friday morning. We kicked up one whitetail on the way to our favorite glassing point. I only saw it for an instant and
couldn’t tell if it had antlers. We reached our glassing point and within 10 minutes I spotted a group of 3 does but no
bucks. After two hours my dad asked how big does he have to be? "I’ll take anything this year dad, I am just happy to be
out here instead of in front of my computer."
We spent the rest of the morning, afternoon, and early evening hiking. We spotted one more doe, and found a lion
kill of a nice 3x3 mule deer.
As the light of day dissipated, my dad headed for the truck and left me in the high desert. I cooked some "camp-grub"
on my portable stove then climbed into my bivy-tent for some much-deserved sleep.
I woke about 15 minutes later than I would have liked, then scrambled to get my clothes on and get to my glassing
perch a few yards away. I glassed for about 2 hours, taking small breaks to take bites of power bars and hydrate from the
previous day of hiking. Finally, I decided to eat some real breakfast and wear some more tread off the bottom of my
boots. After not seeing anything all morning and early afternoon I decided to call my dad to pick me up at our meeting
point.
I spent Sunday physically and mentally recuperating, but Monday morning I woke up extra early and felt rested and
ready to go. I watched the black sky as I sipped my morning coffee, "This will be the day" I told myself. It had to be,
it was already the last day of the season and I would be driving back up to school that evening. My dad wished me good
luck as I left the house that morning in my car. It was just getting light. I walked quickly through the wet grass at the
base of the hill. My eyes darted from the cholla in front of me, to the steep canyon above and back. As I began to
ascended the familiar slope something caught my eye ahead about 175 yards away. Two deer flanked by tell-tale white flags
were trotting up the rocky ravine. I racked the bolt, raised the rifle and clicked the safety to fire in one fluid motion,
just as my dad taught me to practice hundreds of times.
The deer in the scope had a solid looking rack that spread high
and wide. I squeezed off one round and racked the next bullet through out of habit. As I prepared for another shot the
deer suddenly disappeared in the grass and underbrush. I sat down and waited about 10 minutes, then slowly approached
the spot I had last saw the buck. I set down my rifle and admired my deer. "Hey dad", I spoke quietly into the cell
phone, "would you mind bringing the truck up?"
I am writing this in Flagstaff, but my dad called me today. "I brought him to J. Clarno", my dad explained. I knew
Mr. Clarno from Tucson because he had registered a 2002 archery javalina into the Bowhunting in Arizona record books for
my father and I. My dad reported that Mr. Clarno rough scored (before the 60 day drying period) the antlers to 111 7/8
gross and 105 2/8 net! "How am I going to top that" my dad groaned.
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