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Carolina Rebel
11-26-2007, 12:14 AM
My girlfriend and I were cruising around near where I hunt Friday night and we noticed a couple vehicles down at the hunt club, so we decided to see what was going on. Scott, a modest guy of quiet demeanor, watched curiously as we pulled down the driveway in a vehicle he'd never seen, then waved when he recognized us as we bailed out. I walked up to his truck to talk and he showed me a decent 8 point rack, 15 inches wide with 8 inch G2s, from a buck he had harvested that evening. I beckoned for Ally, who came and checked out the deer, as Scott informed me that if we thought his deer was big we needed to go see Carey's.
Carey is a big guy with a bigger personality. He's around sixty years old, smart as a whip, and was once one of the baddest guys in the county and still not someone you'd want to be slugged by. He's also one of the kindest guys you'll ever meat, as long as you've got some sense. He's very similar to Rooster Cogburn if you will. The intensity with which he hunted had diminished over the last couple years, as for some reason he has spent the vast majority of his time at work, putting in 60+ hour weeks. Given that I was glad to hear he had a big one, and Ally and I rounded the corner of the club house just in time to see him hoisting the antlers up one more time. The big, 19" wide 8 point main frame was accentuated with a couple kickers off the left base and one on the right side G2. There was impressive mass and even a little palmation along the G2s and at the ends of the main beams, a true beast of a Richmond/Montgomery county line buck. Carey, for all the deer's merit, seemed strangely unimpressed with it; its rack was sawed off at the skull cap, and essentially tossed in the bed of his truck alongside the deer's caped carcass.
"Thats a pretty nice'n ain't it?!" he asked excitedly as Ally and I approached, taking time to look at each of us to ensure that it was clear that we both were expected to reply.
"Hell yeh Carey, thats a damn beast! Where'd you kill it?" I asked him, as Ally remarked on the mass and odd kickers.
"Down there at the bean field, hell I didn't even get in there 'til quarter to five!"
Carey, for the record, is one of the most accomplished deer hunters I know. He has killed more than his share of big deer, in a variety of different ways. When the club ran dogs regularly Carey was one guy who had a knack for consistently killing big bucks in front of the dogs. Additionally, if he builds a permenant stand or ground blind, its almost guaranteed a big deer will approach it. He's got the touch, if you will. Carey pays no attention to camoflauge, scent control, or any of the variety of other things the majority of us sweat so much over. Somehow, he just goes out and kills big deer. Thus I was not surprised that he arrived at his "stand" with less than an hour of shooting light left. He divulged further that he had killed the deer from the old house in the corner of the field, hence he had not even set up a stand to hunt.
"Hell I got off work today and said 'I think I'm gonna go try to shoot another deer at the bean field,'" he continued. "I shot a doe there yesterday so I knew they were movin' in there. I got my grocery bag and put in a pack of cigarettes and filled it up with some beers and I got out there, hell I was about drunk by the time I got there!" he proudly stated.
Ally, who was used to the stories of sincere struggle my buddies and I usually associate with killing big deer, was mesmorized and amused by the direction this was going.
"I got in the house and looked down and found this old grunt call I'd done lost in there 15 damn years ago, see?"
Around his neck was draped an old grunt call, with no tube. He blew the grunt call kazoo-style, all the while keeping an earnest, informative look on his face, and Ally, Scott, and myself all had to laugh.
"Hell I got it, and blew on it a couple times. Then I was sittin' in there drinkin' a cold beer and smokin' a cigarette when I saw 'em out there in the bean field, way the hell out there across it. I said 'Well shit, that looks like a damn deer!' So I finished my beer and put out my cigarette and looked through my scope and said 'Well hell yeh thats a damn deer!'"
At this point Carey was highly animated, emulating his every move initiating with the drinking of the cold beer, which was simplified by the presence of just such an item in his hand as the story was retold. He imitated putting out the cigarette, and upon imitating raising the rifle up to see the deer he raised the grunt call again and unleashed another series of kazoo-like calls, no doubt just like he had upon spying the big buck through the scope.
"Hell I had to pee, so I turned around and took a piss," which he imitated in a completely acceptable, non-vulgar manner, much to Ally's relief.
"Then I turned around and picked up my rifle, and I zoomed the scope in and looked and said 'Hell I'm gonna shoot his ass!' Will, you'da been proud of that shot, how far was he Scott?"
"250 yards," Scott told me, before telling me about where the deer was. It was an easy 250 yards, possibly more, from the old house to that part of the bean field.
"Hell yeh, he was way out there. I've always been a good shot though you know," Carey soaked it up as I nodded in acknowledgement. Carey is one of the best marksmen I've ever known, after all.
"So I raised up my ole .300 and waited till he was quarterin' towards me, hell I put it right in front of his shoulder and said 'POW!' and he ran off, he didn't go 20 or 25 yards before me and Scott found him dead as hell."
The next day Carey was back at the hunt club, hanging out with all of the guys, most of whom had neither seen nor heard the story of the big deer. Straight faced, he informed them all that he had shot it in the bean field, and that he could have never killed the buck without 'the can'.
"Oh so you bleated him up with the Primos can thing, that thing works?!" Jub asked excitedly, while the rest of the crowd gazed wide-eyed at what might well have justified a little of the money they'd spent over the years in pursuit of a beast like that one.
"Naw," he said while giving Jub a ridiculous look, "This can!"
He then shook his beer can in the air.
This, folks, is how it is done. I'm honestly considering trading in all my Scent-lok, my green soap, my gloves, fanny pack, all those unnecessary things for beer and cigarettes. Seriously, I'm glad that Carey killed that buck, and I sure wish I'd had a video camera to tape him as he retold that story. It was by and large the funniest account of a deer kill I've ever seen or heard, and I just hope I've done it some justice here.

Al Kai
12-02-2007, 03:45 AM
Good one. Drank a beer and finished his cigarette.

Billy J
12-04-2007, 03:56 PM
sounds like the kind of hunter that gives us decent hunters a bad name with the beer drinking he should not be allowed to posses a gun

12-04-2007, 05:07 PM
I decided to not post on on this topic because of the drinking while hunting part.

I bet this is a fictional story. Will has good enough sense to not hunt with someone drinking.

I refuse to hunt with anyone that is drinking but the story reads like a fictional story.

I am not going to bash my friend Will for posting a funny story.


Billy J
12-04-2007, 08:04 PM
i hope it is fictional

12-17-2007, 04:38 PM
Yeah anybody that gets caught drinkin while hunting with us is immediately dismissed from the club.

12-17-2007, 04:52 PM
I used to be a member of a club that had 2000 acres. There were 22 deer hunters and 10-15 rabbit hunters.

We let this man and his son in one year. After the season went out we would go ride our 4-wheelers on Saturday. I found one of his stands and he had string tied to limbs over his stands. To these stings he had beer cans. He would sit up there and drink and hunt. The string would hold his can so there was no noise made from sitting it down on his stand.

He was quickly kicked out.

Then we had another get get in. He was in it for years. His brother was once the president of the club. One day we was posting the land and stumbled across some pot growing in a creek bottom. There were hundereds of plants planted beside pine trees and tied to them. THe plants would grow up the trees and be hard to spot from planes. The heat from the pines would hide the heat given off from the pot plants. It was almost impossible to detect from the airplanes that looks for pot fields.

No one knew whose it was. The sherriff;s dept came and got it. A few years later this guy gets busted for growing it and selling it. He had millions of dollars worth around his house. He cut a deal with the sherriff's dept. he told them where his stuff was growing on out hunting club. He was the one growing it. He had planted it the next year as well. He said we only found about 1/4 of it. He paid $50,000 in taxes and is back to growing it again now. His brother was the Sherriff at the time.