Rog's Rod & Nimrod

For much of my hunting life, I’ve looked as forward to the opening morning of East River Deer season as would a twelve-year-old kid on his first hunt. Last Saturday morning, November 17th, was different. Two of my faithful companions are no longer alive, and two more no longer hunt. Doug, my usual partner, had to wrap up his harvest, and I was alone. The full reality of hunting being a social activity to be shared with friends slapped me across the face.

The alarm that sounded at 4:15 a.m. wasn’t needed. I was awake. Breakfast included pills and cold cereal. Pulling on my insulated coveralls as well as my boots seemed like a chore. I faced an eighty mile drive to my Brule County destination – a great location but my second choice as I didn’t draw my Charles Mix County first choice. WNAX was little companionship as I listened to some quack doctor talk about our previous lives.

I pulled into the yard at 6:30, and my host rancher was kind enough to lead me to my stand area in the dark. I would man this post for the next eleven hours…..if I could handle it. 7:00 a.m. or first light found me on a knob at the source of a draw that ran east to west to the Missouri River below. The north wind was flat-out cold.

I pondered my situation. I was no longer strong enough to drag a deer out of that draw below. My 2WD pickup might get down there, but it couldn’t climb out. Unless I killed a deer on the flat where I sat, I was totally dependent on the rancher and his sons. I was anyway. I couldn’t get a deer into my truck by myself. Maybe next year would be different. I could get a 4WD ATV. With a winch I could crank a deer into the pickup box. My mind raced. It was 8:00 a.m. No deer. I was really cold.

At 9:00 a.m. I was shivering when I glanced across the draw to the north. Two deer, one very large, were playing whitetail games on the flat, and I had a whitetail tag. I could see antlers, but just how good I had no idea. I estimated their range at 325 yards and dismissed the idea of taking a shot because of the wind.

A minute later I realized that the wind wasn’t a factor as it blew from the deer to me. I put my rifle on the tripod and balanced it with my right hand as I studied the buck. I was rock solid as I placed my scope’s horizontal crosshair along his back just behind his neck. I engaged the set trigger of my .30-06 and heard the WHUMP of bullet striking flesh when I touched the front trigger. He ran twenty yards before piling up. When I got to him, I realized he was physically the biggest deer I’ve ever killed. I’ll be eternally grateful to that ranch family for loading up that deer as well as for the privilege of hunting on their property.

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A former boss once told me, “Wiltz, you’re not one for mincing words.” He was right in that I generally speak what’s on my mind. I won’t go so far as to call them liars, but I feel that our tourism department needs to let prospective pheasant hunters know that in some areas, a 47% increase of zero is still zero.

Tourism beat to death the so-called 47% increase in our pheasant population, and many of our out-of-state hunters believed it. They won’t next year. Tourism also spins this story about how our out-of-state hunters enjoy the comraderie of hunting together and getting reacquainted with old friends more than seeing a healthy population of wild pheasants. While there is some truth to this, don’t think for a second that the pheasants aren’t important.

In my October 31st column, I talked about our struggling ringneck population and the possible causes including herbicides and insecticides. I received reader feedback, and more often than not I heard about bitterly disappointed hunters, some of whom headed home on the second day of the season.

See you next week.