When I was a very young boy, deer hunting with my father and uncles was better than the arrival of the Easter Bunny, Fryeburg Fair and Christmas all rolled into one.
So needless to say, foul weather didn’t bother me when it came to deer hunting. I think it was 1964, it was late season with a lot of fresh snow on the ground and oddly enough my father hadn’t gotten his deer yet.
The temperature was very low and the wind blowing a gale that was sending the fresh powdered snow everywhere. I kept pestering Dad to go hunting, but at his age at the time, freezing to death wasn’t real high on his list. Through my persistence and near begging, he finally got out of his chair, he reached for his boots and wool clothes and grabbed his rifle off the gun rack.
“It’s a good day for it,” I told my father. He looked at me like I was totally foolish. Now that I had him moving, I raced for the wood shed to grab my snowshoes.
“If were going out in this mess, we might as well hunt that piece between Southeast Pond and Barker Pond” he exclaimed.
I thought that was a great idea, so off we went.
Upon arrival, I got out of the vehicle, donned my snowshoes and told my dad, “I’ll see you at the gut pile.”
He headed for what we called the big knoll beside southeast pond and I across Shirley Usher’s field, en route to the south end of Barker Pond.
Almost to my destination while snowshoeing down the old logging road, I noticed three different deer tracks crossing the road and into the piece I was to hint through. Upon seeing the deer tracks it put my enthusiasm into high gear and to the end of Barker Pond I raced on my little “Bear Paw” snowshoes.
When I started my hunt back through to my father along the side of southeast pond, the snow was so beautiful hanging off the bows of hemlock and winter beech trees like strands of white pearls.
After about 20 more steps I noticed the snow looked like swirling tornadoes up ahead, only to find upon further inspection that it was the ruckus caused by jumping the three deer’s tracks. After a few minutes of tracking, I heard the faint crack of my fathers Savage Rifle. I picked up my pace and upon coming out to my destination, found my Dad leaning against a big beech tree with a slight grin on his face.
I didn’t have to ask, “did you get him,” as the “ol’ man” didn’t miss many deer. I looked to my left towards the knoll and saw the big fat seven-pointer lying in the deep snow. “You’ve got some dragging to do,” he said with his blue eyes gleaming and a boyish grin on his face, “and by the way, you were right, it was a good day for it.”
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